By then Basil Karshchov was positively giddy with happiness and excitement. “You and me? We go inside, Gavin?”
“I’ll need you to explain to your friends what to do,” Gavin said.
Karshchov’s mood suddenly fell. “That will be important if my beautiful Natalia is not there. Somebody must be able to speak Russian.”
“Yes, Basil, I’m afraid so,” Gavin said in a frank tone. “It is an unpleasant possibility.”
“If that is the case, I will help you get my friends across the river,” Karshchov said, “but after that I am going back.”
“I understand, Basil,” Gavin assured him. “That’s when I’ll keep my promise to you.”
Murphy laid a hand on Karshchov’s shoulder. “You’re a brave man, Mr. Karshchov. I admire that.”
“We’ll all hope for the best,” Steeple told the Russian.
“All you dragoons are good friends,” Karshchov said with great emotion in his voice. “That is the truth!”
“When do we do all this, sir?” Steeple asked.
“Tonight after midnight,” Gavin said. “It would be impossible any earlier. That’s something I’ve learned from both observing and entering the Comanchero camp. They’re a lively bunch, but fatigue and the results of liquor settle in at that hour.”
“We’d best rest up, then,” Steeple suggested. “I got a feeling that we ain’t gonna get much sleep this coming week.”
“Yeah,” Murphy agreed. “Especially if we’re gonna get chased across half o’ Kansas Territory by a bunch o’ riled Comancheros while we’re herding along civilians on foot.”
“We’ll be busy all right,” Gavin said in understatement. “Now I want you two corporals to inform your men of the what, when, where, and how of this rescue. Make sure at least one guard is posted at all times. All the remaining hours of daylight should be spent in resting up for the ordeal ahead.”
“Yes, sir,” the corporals said in unison. They stood up, saluted, then moved out to gather up the men.
Gavin stretched out, leaning his head against his saddle put down by Carlson and O’Hearn. He closed his eyes, quickly drifting off as the exhaustion of more than twenty-four hours without sleep finally caught up with him.
Karshchov, long an atheistic intellectual, suddenly clasped his hands together and muttered a prayer he had learned in the Russian Orthodox Church as a youngster. He even murmured a fervent, “Amen!” before crossing himself for the first time in many years. Then, imitating his American friend, he lay down to get some sleep.
The hours eased by on a wonderful spring day. The sky, deep blue with scattered mountains of cumulus clouds high above, haloed the Kansas countryside whose own horizons seemed to stretch into infinity. It was quiet within the grove of trees, and the sound of the creek’s gentle current lulled the inhabitants of the temporary camp.
Evening came like a silent shadow without notice. Dusk moved across the flat terrain, dragging the night behind it, making shadows lengthen. The color of the sky followed along, the legions of stars and blackness pushing the blue down into the redness of sunset. By the time the moon made its appearance, the dragoons were wide awake and ready in spite of the hours of waiting still ahead of them.
Basil Karshchov, on the other hand, seemed almost at peace. The Russian was ready to face what he must, willing to accept the fate ordained for him. If he had any particular concern at that point, it was to be brave and honorable whether in life or death. Life without Natalia Valenko was not worth living as far as he was concerned.
The first time that Gavin stepped from the trees into the moonlight to check his pocket watch, it was ten o’clock. He made his way back to his companions, taking care not to make any noise that might attract any wandering Comancheros.
With no fire, it was pitch-black within the grove, and only occasional reflections off the metal of equipment and bridles gave away anyone’s presence within the silent group.
Gavin made three more trips, out into the moonlight before it was after midnight. The final glance at the timepiece showed it to be a quarter to one. He emitted a low whistle to signal the others. Within moments a slight crackling of brush and the soft thud of hooves on prairie dirt announced the exit from the stand of trees.
The men swung up into their saddles and, barely able to see the man ahead, followed after Gavin MacRoss as he led them back toward the Comanchero camp that shared the banks of both the Little and Big Arkansas rivers two miles away.
When they reached the river, Gavin signaled to Murphy, then pointed to the direction of the corral. The corporal and Fenlay rode slowly into the shallows, fording the river and coming out in the deep shadows at the edge of the camp, where Murphy turned south with Fenlay close behind. Within a few moments the two dragoons reached the corral.
Murphy whispered to his companion. “Let’s do it!”
“I’m ready,” Fenlay assured him.
While Fenlay waited on the north side, Murphy went slowly around to the back of the corral until reaching the post described by Gavin. The corporal pulled his picket rope from the saddle and looped it first around the pole, then around his saddle horn. He kicked his horse’s flanks, and the animal pulled hard, working against the resistance. Within moments the support pulled out of the sandy soil. Immediately the structure gave way, falling to the ground.
Fenlay moved forward toward the milling horses. They instinctively gave way, allowing him to herd them toward the river. Murphy pulled out and got into position to help. Within a very short five minutes, the entire herd was in the river, moving toward the deeper water until forced to swim.
“There they go,” Murphy whispered with a grin. “Heading south.”
“Let’s get the hell out of here,” Fenlay urged him. “I already heard some moving around back there.”
The two dragoons, smug as hell with the self-satisfaction of doing a damn good job, went back into the river and took a slight northerly course as they headed back to camp.
Up at the stockade, in the heavy brush north of the structure, Gavin and his men bided their time. It seemed like an entire hour had dragged by before they noted a disturbance in the camp. It was hard to distinguish what was going on, but loud, angry talk convinced the dragoon officer that the Comancheros had discovered their horses’ unscheduled swim.
“Now’s our time, Corporal Steeple,” Gavin said.
“Right, sir,” the corporal replied.
They moved quickly around to the other side of the stockade, glad to hear the commotion building up. All the attention in the Comanchero camp was toward the river junction. The two guards had stepped out to peer into the settlement as fires quickly flared up and people moved around.
“I wonder what the hell’s going on?” one guard mused aloud.
“Maybe something’s riled Mr. Lazardo,” his companion said. “I sure as hell wouldn’t—”
Gavin’s arm went around his neck, and he drove his knife deep into the man’s back, pushing the blade up high where it could do the most damage.
The first guard turned at the sound. The last thing he saw in his life was the distorted face of Steeple and the flash of the cutting weapon that bit deep into his throat, giving him another mouth. This was followed by two quick slashes across the belly.
The two attackers dragged the bodies into the darkness, then returned to the others waiting on the other side of the crude prison.
“Let’s go, Basil!” Gavin said.
They went up to the loosened logs and Gavin pushed them farther apart. Then he and his Russian friend slipped in. They stumbled across someone in the dark who muttered angrily: “Shto eto?”
“Ya Karshchov,” the Russian said. He began to speak rapidly under his breath.
Within moments there was scurrying around. Now and then a child made a whimper or some adult had to be shushed, but within moments the entire group moved toward the opening, going through one at a time where Steeple, Carlson, and O’Hearn gathered them up.
Ga
vin felt a rough grip on his shoulder. “Who’s that?”
“Sergeant Douglas reporting for duty, sir,” came a gruff voice. “I hope you ain’t taking the time I spent in here off my next furlough.”
“I sure as hell am,” Gavin said. He almost hugged his old friend. “How are you?”
“A bit scuffed up, but I can move around now,” Douglas replied. He lowered his voice and put his mouth close to Gavin’s ear. “The young lady’s here, sir. She’s the one what took care o’ me.”
“Glad to hear it,” Gavin said.
More people moved past them until Basil came into view. “My Natalia is with me!” he said happily.
“Good,” Gavin said. “Let’s get out of here. We can talk later.”
The two dragoons stepped through the opening. Gavin tapped Steeple on the shoulder, saying, “Take O’Hearn and scout out those shallows. Make sure nobody’s there. If they are, do what you must to clear the way.”
“Yes, sir,” Murphy said. He winked at Douglas in the moonlight. “Glad to see you, Sergeant.”
“Move out on your mission, Corporal!” Douglas snapped. “We ain’t got time to blabber at each other.” Steeple grabbed O’Hearn, and the two disappeared into the dark. Basil, with Natalia’s help, organized the prisoners. They made sure the children stayed together with the women while the men formed around them. Steeple made a quick return. “Let’s go! It’s clear!” The group, moving as fast as possible, went to the river where O’Hearn waited. He stepped into the shallows, and the entire bunch followed him across to the other side. The dragoons retrieved their horses; then the escape continued until they reached the camp by the creek.
“Listen up!” Gavin said. “I want all the dragoons, with the exception of Sergeant Douglas and O’Hearn, to lead the Russian men straight out east. Then double back on your trail and return here to the creek. I want it to appear to the Comancheros that the whole group of us has taken off in that direction.”
“Yes, sir,” Steeple replied. Being the senior corporal, he would be in charge of that job.
“While you’re gone, the rest of us are going to be walking in the water as far north as possible,” Gavin explained. “When you get back here, follow after us. Stay in the creek to cover your tracks.”
“Why go north, sir?” Douglas asked. “Fort Scott is due east.”
“I know,” Gavin said. “So do McRyan and Costello. They’ll tell the Comancheros about the post, and they’ll figure we’ve headed that way. The trail that Steeple’s group leaves will help convince them we are making our way to Fort Scott.”
Douglas moved close to the lieutenant. “May I speak with you, sir? In private?”
“Sure,” Gavin replied. “Let’s step over here.”
They walked a few paces back into the darkness out of earshot of the others.
“Begging your pardon, sir, but we’ll never make it to Fort Leavenworth,” Douglas said under his breath.
“We’re not going to Fort Leavenworth,” Gavin said. “That would be impossible.”
“No disrespect, Lieutenant,” Douglas said. “But just where in hell are we going?”
“To Nadezhda,” Gavin answered.
“The Russian settlement?” Douglas exclaimed. “That’s impossible, too, sir.”
“It certainly is,” Gavin agreed. “But it’s not as big an impossibility as Fort Leavenworth or Fort Scott.”
“I counted them pris’ners while I was in the stockade,” Douglas said. “There’s twelve men, eight women, and six kids. That comes to about twenty-six folks, out of which fourteen ain’t combatants.”
Gavin chuckled. “You forgot to count Irena Yakubovski.”
“Fine, sir,” Douglas said. “Then, thirteen of ’em can’t fight. Do you really expect to move ’em all the way back to that town and get ’em there safe and sound.”
“Probably not,” Gavin said. “Care to leave? You could mount up now and ride the hell out of here.”
“Not me,” Douglas said. He grinned. “Why should I have to miss all the fun that’s gonna happen in the next few days?”
“You’re always thinking of yourself, Sergeant,” Gavin said, glad to have the full support of the noncommissioned officer.
“Well, Lieutenant, we’d best stop jawing,” Douglas said. “We got a hell of a job to try to do.”
The two returned to the group to find that Steeple and the others had already headed out to lay the false trail.
“O’Hearn!” Gavin called out. “Take the point!”
Fifteen
The discovery of the horses’ disappearance set the Comanchero camp into action. However, because of the darkness and the shortage of available mounts, there was little they could do except to send a few men on foot down the river in the hopes of catching any animal that might leave the water and come up on the bank. Most of the action taken was little more than cursing, shouting, and useless running around. This was particularly true because several of the participants were drunk from interrupted binges.
Guido Lazardo, though mad as hell at what he judged to be stupid carelessness on the part of his men, considered the situation beneath him. The leader of a large outlaw band did not act as a common herdsman no matter what the situation. For that reason, he dispatched Monroe Lockwood and Big Joe to supervise the roundup, then went back to his woman of that particular night. Waking up had roused his spent passions, and he treated himself to another taste of his companion's charms before sinking back into a deep sleep.
The first thing Lockwood and Big Joe did was to go to each shelter to make sure the inhabitant was up to participate in the recovery of the horses. It didn't matter if the Comanchero resident was still drunk from the previous evening or not. Those still in their cups were pulled from the warmth of their crude homes and yanked upright. A few sharp slaps in the face and kicks from the large men were enough to send the drunkards lurching and weaving after their fellow outlaws to see about regaining the wandering horses.
After getting all available hands to work, Lockwood and Big Joe headed for the river below the junction. One took the east side of the river and the other the west. The two large men bullied and kicked their charges along, threatening beatings, and even death, for slackness.
Running around in the predawn darkness was not something either one of the men enjoyed. They took their irritation out on any unfortunate who came within reach.
Meanwhile, the animals that had gotten out of the water were quickly rounded up and led back to the camp, where they could be properly saddled and bridled for a chase to catch the horses that had managed to get farther south. Within a couple of hours, ten mounted men galloped down both riverbanks to head loose horses back where the men on foot could manage them.
The sun was up by then, making the chore much easier. Mounts, cold from their time in the water, had gotten ashore to warm up and munch on the fresh sweet grass of the prairie. A few scattered when approached by the Comancheros, but most allowed themselves to be herded back to the now-repaired corral at the camp.
The job wasn’t completed until midday. The final horses found were driven across the shallows and up to the gate to be slapped and yelled at until they were once again in confinement. At that late hour, the entire population, including Guido Lazardo, was present. The band’s chief, already bored with the woman who had spent the night with him, had sent the trollop back to her own dwelling to wait for her man to return from the horse-recovery operation.
A small Mexican boy, who had been scampering about since the camp’s arousal, now stood at the very front of the crowd, enjoying the spectacle. He stood near Lazardo watching the activity. The Sicilian had a genuine affection for children, even those he planned to sell into slavery. He always carried sugar candy and loved to toss it out to the youngsters. When he noticed the boy, he reached in his pocket and handed him a hunk of the sweets.
“Do you like watching all the excitement?” Lazardo asked him in Spanish.
The boy, who knew his mother
but wasn’t quite sure which Mexican Comanchero was his father, laughed. He answered, “Oh, yes! Que diversion!” He took a bite of the candy. “But who are the dead men on the other side of the camp?”
Lazardo’s smile froze. “What dead men, muchacho?” Dead people were nothing new for the boy to see. He was only surprised to note they were lying unattended. “The two by the estacada—the stockade,” the boy said. “They are de nosotros. They belong to us.”
Now Lazardo frowned. “You mean where the prisoners are kept?”
“Se Jueron todos los prisioneros,” the boy said. “They are gone.”
“Que? What?” Lazardo asked, stunned.
“There are no prisoners,” the boy repeated. “I think they must have gone away.”
Lazardo roughly grabbed the boy and shook him. “You’re not joking with me, are you, muchacho?”
The lad started to sob. “N-no, I am t-telling what is true.”
“Lockwood! Big Joe!” Lazardo roared, letting the boy go. “Come with me!”
The two men responded immediately, leaving the corral fence and trotting after Lazardo, who raced through the camp. Within moments other Comancheros, intrigued by the sight of a very furious Guido Lazardo heading north through the dwellings, followed the trio, though they hadn’t the slightest idea what had disturbed their leader and his two chief lieutenants.
They found the slain guards, sliced and covered with dried blood, sprawled a few yards from the gate. Lazardo rushed over to peer through the logs that made up the enclosure.
“Gone!” he bellowed. “Everyone is gone!”
Big Joe pulled the keys from the belt on one of the cadavers and hurried over to unlock the gate. He kicked it open and allowed Lazardo to proceed him into the interior.
The place was completely empty except for the flies buzzing around the feces in the area the Russians had used to relieve themselves. Lazardo checked the walls, going around the perimeter until he reached the back.
“Here!” he yelled. “They went out here!”
He forced himself through the opening and noted that the outer logs had been parted, making it easy to manipulate the inner barriers. He realized that outside help had been employed in the escape. He reentered the stockade.
Comanchero Blood (A Dragoons Western Book 2) Page 15